The Passing Bells

by Phillip Rock

“Yes, you damn fool,” Galesby said. “It is.”

  BOOK TWO

  On marching men, on

  To the gates of death with song.

  Sow your gladness for earth’s reaping,

  So you may be glad, though sleeping.

  Strew your gladness on earth’s bed.

  So be merry, so be dead.

  —CHARLES HAMILTON SORLEY (1895–1915)

  8

  Major-General Sir Julian Wood-Lacy, VC, CVO, stood beside his staff car on a low hill in the shadow of a derelict windmill. The road to Maubeuge lay below, the poplars lining it standing motionless in the heat, their leaves white with dust. The army had been moving up the road from Le Cateau since dawn and had ground the surface to a chalky powder. The general’s division was coming along, the first battalion of the Lancashire Regiment almost abreast of him now, the Royal West Kent behind them, followed by three batteries of field artillery. The rest of the division was far down the road, a crawling line of khaki barely discernible through the dust. Two squadrons of the 19th Hussars, the troopers dismounted to spare the horses, moved across the skyline of a distant hill. By God, the general thought, rendered dumb from emotion that choked him, what a wonder!

  The division had been on the move for three days, dawn to dusk, across the rolling plains of northern France. Three days of grueling route march from the port of Boulogne under a pitiless August sun, and now here they were at last, a mere ten miles from the Belgian frontier. The general removed his cap from his balding head and waved it vigorously. The colonel of the Lancs, riding in front of his leading company on a sorrel horse, waved back, then turned to shout something at the men striding along behind him.

  The infantry, by Harry! The general replaced his cap and stiffened, as though about to salute his king. God, how he loved the infantry. And there they were, the battalions of his division, marching at ease, rifles slung, dust streaked, uniforms black with sweat, whistling, some playing mouth organs or Jew’s harps, but every man jack of them keeping in step and in an unwavering column of fours. The general was sixty-one years old and had been an infantryman since his seventeenth year, when he had joined the old 24th Foot as a subaltern. God! How many roads had he marched along in Zululand, Egypt, the Sudan, India? Uncounted miles. He could remember the hardships of those stony ways, the poor food and the stinking roadside water, the ranks dropping like flies that terrible September on the road from Jalalabad. All that was changed. Now, behind every company in each battalion came the horse-drawn transport wagons loaded with supplies, an ambulance wagon, and the field cookers, comforting plumes of smoke drifting from the stovepipes.

  The passing men looked toward the low hill and burst into a shout: “Are we downhearted? NO-O-O!” The sound of the company’s voices rocketed up to the general like a burst of cannon fire. And then the men broke into song, the music hall ditty that the British Expeditionary Force had taken as its own: “It’s a long way to Tipperary . . . It’s a long way to go. . . .”

  Succeeding units kept the verses going, rank after rank—the Wiltshires and the Royal Irish, the Highland Light Infantry and the Middlesex Regiment—sweated, sunburned faces turning toward the hill where “Old Woody” stood saluting them, yes, by God, until the last of his nineteen thousand men had passed by, or at least come into view.

  “Goodbye, Piccadilly, farewell, Leicester Square . . . It’s a long, long way to Tipperary, but my heart’s right there.”

  The château at Longueville shone silvery white under the moon, a fairyland castle with conical towers and pointed spires. It was the temporary headquarters of the 3rd Division, II Corps of the BEF, and the cobblestoned courtyard was crowded with staff cars, tethered horses, and the motorcycles and bicycles of dispatch riders and battalion runners. Captain Fenton Wood-Lacy rode his tired horse under the graceful wrought-iron arch that spanned the stone columns of the gateway, showing his identity papers to the sergeant of the guard, and then dismounted and led his mount to the horse lines, where a cheerful farrier corporal offered to wipe the beast down and give him a good feed. Fenton handed him some cigarettes for his trouble and then walked stiffly toward the terraced stone steps of the château.

  The entrance hall was a place of bedlam. Signalers were struggling to set up their telephone equipment in one corner, and staff officers hurried up and down a baroque marble staircase while clusters of company and battalion commanders stood about in glowering impatience. Fenton felt conspicuous among so many majors, colonels, and brigadiers—even more so when Colonel Archibald Blythe, General Wood-Lacy’s ADC, spotted him and cut through the crowd of expostulating brass with a deaf ear.

  “Ah, Captain,” the colonel said, pumping Fenton’s hand, “glad you received the message. The general’s most anxious to talk to you. Come along upstairs.”

  Fenton ignored the glares of his superiors as the elderly colonel, who looked more like a professor of Greek than a soldier, led him up the winding staircase to the second floor and ushered him into a large room.

  “How about a whiskey?”

  Fenton made a futile dab at his dust-streaked khakis. “I’d like that and a clothes brush.”

  “Good Lord, no,” the colonel said. “Dusty uniforms and dirty boots are strictly de rigueur in this division. I believe your uncle would court-martial any officer who showed up in clean kit.” He gave Fenton a pat on the arm. “Damn good to see you again, lad. Just stroll about and I’ll send for a bottle and some Vichy. His nibs’ll be along in time.”

  “How is the old boy?”

  “Happy as a lark in spring. He was planning his retirement two months ago, and now he’s leading a full-strength division against Fritz. Rather makes one ponder.”

  Fenton walked slowly around the room, a gallery filled with paintings of bucolic subjects and objets d’art. The château of a cultured man. A soldier brought whiskey, Vichy water, and glasses, and Fenton made himself a stiff drink and sat down on an impossibly delicate Louis XIV chair to enjoy it. He was several degrees past weariness, having been in the saddle since dawn. Having been foot-slogging for the same amount of time, the men of his company were even wearier, but at least they were asleep by now in and around the haystacks of Neuf-Mesnils.

  He had just finished the drink and was contemplating having another when the general came striding into the room. His uniform, Fenton noted, was suitably dust ridden. He jumped to his feet, shifted the empty glass from right to left hand, and made a proper, if hasty, salute.

  “At ease, boy . . . at ease.” Sir Julian faced his nephew and smiled broadly. “By thunder, but you’re a sight to behold. Dirty as a collier. Glad to see the Guards doing honest soldiering for a change.”

  “Well, sir, it’s good to be out of a red coat, I’ll say that.”

  “Yes, by God, I bet it is.” He clapped Fenton on the shoulders with both hands. “Damn, but it’s nice to see you, boy. How’s young Roger?”

  “Hurrying to enlist, last I saw of him.”

  The general tugged at his bristly walrus mustache. “Jolly good for him, but this flap’ll be over by the time he gets his uniforms tailored. Our Teutonic friends bit off a bit more than they can chew. They’ll be scurrying back across the Rhine before the leaves fall.”

  “Do you think so, sir?”

  He leaned forward and lowered his voice a notch. “I know so. They’ve been taking fearful losses at Liège, and they’ll be taking worse if they try to storm the forts at Namur. Those Belgians are fighting like terriers. By God, I hope we get a crack at ’em, but I’m afraid they’ll pull in their horns and rush back to cover their center. The Frogs have been on the attack since this morning . . . toward Morhange and Sarrebourg. They should be deep into Lorraine by this time tomorrow, and Fritz will be in bloody hot water. Never did think much of this tactic of theirs, thinning the center and throwing all their power on their right wing. Bloody damn silly, if you ask me. The Frog First and Second armies will cut through Fritz’s belly like hot knives through wax. How about another whis
key?”

  “Only if you’ll join me, sir.”

  “Sorry, lad. Can’t take the time. Got a devil’s amount of work to do.” He folded his arms and rocked slowly back and forth on his heels. “I shall be brief, Fenton, and to the point. I’ve just arranged your transfer to my staff.”

  Fenton glanced away from his uncle’s bright, piercing eyes. “That smacks a bit of nepotism, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Smacks? Why, good Lord, it positively reeks of it. But let lesser tongues wag if they will. My senior staff are all for it. We move north into Belgium tomorrow, the entire army. I suppose you can visualize what that means . . . ninety thousand men on the move and hardly one decent map among all of ’em. Your brigade is supposed to stay in close contact with my right flank. That might be a bit tricky because of the roads and the terrain. I need a trustworthy liaison officer—someone who won’t rub the Guards’ brigadier the wrong way, if you get my drift.”

  “I do, yes, sir.”

  “You’re just the chap for the job. Blythe will give you a map showing our intended position by the evening of the twenty-second and indicating where the Guards Brigade should be at that time. Your job is to make bloody sure they’re in that position. If they’re not, then I must know exactly where they are so I don’t leave my flank dangling in the blue. The signalers aren’t laying wire except along the line of march. I can pick up the telephone and ring through to Calais or even Paris, but I can’t bloody well speak to anyone five miles to my right or left. I hope you don’t resent my turning you into a messenger boy.”

  “No, sir, not at all.”

  “Good. It’s settled then. Fortify yourself with another whiskey and then go over the details with Blythe.” His hard brown hand shot out and squeezed Fenton’s arm. “By gad, it’s good to have you with me. I made you my second-in-command when you were eight years old. Do you remember?”

  “Yes, sir,” Fenton said, grinning. “And Roger was adjutant.”

  “Wood sword, paper hat, and all.”

  Colonel Blythe appeared in the doorway and coughed discreetly for attention.

  “The battalion commanders are assembled, sir—”

  “Right,” the general said, snapping out of his sudden reverie. “Take our new young thruster in hand, that’s the good chap.” He turned abruptly and strode out of the room, his spurred boots pounding a brisk tattoo on the landing.

  Colonel Blythe smiled faintly. “Comforting sound.”

  “He certainly exudes confidence.”

  “Yes, and we should be grateful for that. The troops are cheery enough . . . and cocky as hell, but, except for Old Woody, the high command is as nervous as a maiden aunt at a men’s smoker.” He poured himself a whiskey and downed it neat. “The French Fifth Army is off to our right somewhere, but there’s no communication between them and us—no cooperation of any kind. They may be massed along the Sambre, and then again they may not. They may be about to attack Fritz, and then again they may be planning to fall back. No one knows for sure—nor do we have the foggiest idea what Fritz is up to. There may be two German corps ahead of us or two field armies, but I dare say we’ll find out soon enough.” He drew a map from a leather case fastened to his belt and handed it to Fenton. “We start north at dawn tomorrow. Our corps area will go along the canal from Conde to Mons. Third Division HQ will be a couple of miles south of Mons . . . at Frameries. We want you up there with the advance party. When battalion areas have been established and you can place them on the map, you’re to scurry over to First Corps and make certain the Guards Brigade has reached Villers-St. Ghislain and that they have at least two batteries of eighteen-pounders covering the road from Thieu—if there is a road. The maps are bloody useless when it comes to minor details like that.” He ran a hand through his thinning gray hair. “Lord, what a way to go to war.”

  D Company was in bivouac in a field, most of the men rolled up in their blankets beside the hay mounds, but a few sprawled on the ground smoking and talking. The company had been brought up to full strength with reservists—two hundred and forty men in four platoons—and Fenton had hoped to lead it. But strict adherence to custom had prevailed: only majors to command companies. The majors would have preferred the captains had the job. Most of them were well into their thirties, and some, like Major Horace Middlebanks, who was now in active command of D Company, had been on extended leave for months—Middlebanks on his estate in Ireland, where he raised steeplechase horses and distilled whiskey. Too much sampling of the latter had played havoc with his liver, and he was far from joyous to see his second-in-command pack up to move out.

  “Hell’s bells, Fenton,” he grumbled, pacing the tiny farmhouse room they shared as a billet. “I really feel rotten.”

  Fenton shoved his gear into a canvas kit bag and tried to ignore the major stalking back and forth in his underwear.

  “Go see the MO.”

  The major snorted in disgust. “All he’ll do is give me one of those blue pills . . . or yellow pills. Anyway, whatever the bloody color, they’ll keep me chained to a latrine for a week. It just isn’t fair for me to lose you now. What if I ruddy well collapse in the saddle tomorrow and have to be sent back to Boulogne to see a real doctor?”

  “Then Ashcroft will take over. He’s a good man.”

  “He doesn’t have the experience,” the major said with a snort.

  “None of us have the experience, do we? I mean, this isn’t maneuvers. Have you ever heard a gun fired in anger? No . . . Neither have I. . . . Neither has Ashcroft. What difference does it make? Go back to sleep, Horace, and stop worrying about everything.”

  The major tossed and turned in restless slumber, grunting and groaning. It didn’t matter to Fenton. He found it impossible to sleep anyway; his brain wouldn’t allow it. Thoughts swirled around in a hodgepodge of vivid images. It seemed unbelievable that he had been in France for less than a week. Six days ago he had been in Southampton waiting to board the transport. The Marquess of Dexford had been permitted to come dockside and had brought gifts for his son Andrew, embarking with the 4th Cavalry Brigade, and for “my future son-in-law.”

  He sat up in the hard, narrow bed and looked through a hazy mica window at a distorted image of the moon. Lord Sutton’s gifts had been appreciated—a box of tinned delicacies from Harrod’s, Abdullah cigarettes, a bottle of whiskey, and a beautifully made, but totally impractical, pocket pistol. He had traded it to a captain in A Company for some extra socks. Among the gifts had been a letter from Winifred.

  My dearest Fenton: God protect you in this hour of trial. I know you will be brave and daring and help achieve a quick and glorious victory. I am most vexed at Germany for starting this war, but they shall soon rue it. All of the newspapers predict that it will be over by Christmas. I pray they are correct in that assumption and that we will be tangoing at a victory ball on New Year’s Eve. Ever, Your Winifred.

  He groaned as loudly as the liverish major. Your Winifred! It was a struggle to recall her face.

  He was dressed and out before dawn, walking across the stubble field toward the crossroads, where a staff car was waiting. Private Webber, his batman, trailed along behind him, carrying the bags and whistling softly to himself. Happy to be leaving, Fenton was thinking. The idea of his officer being attached to staff was pleasing to Webber. No more thirty-mile-a-day marches, no more sleeping on the hard ground. No wonder he was whistling. The tune was certainly appropriate to their change in station, and Fenton mouthed the words: “I’m Burlington Bertie, I rise at ten-thirty . . . and go for a stroll like a toff. . . .”

  “What’s that, sir?” Webber stood still, head cocked to one side. There was nothing to be heard other than the thin, distant call of a nightingale from the dark woods that bordered the field, but something had moved against them, a pulse of air that was not wind, that could be sensed rather than felt. Then sound came—dull, persistent thuds far off to the northeast, a rumble of thunder bumping the horizon. Sheet lightning flickered against a s
ky that was beginning to pale.

  “Blimey,” Webber said, sniffing the air. “Don’t smell like rain.”

  Fenton walked slowly on, watching the sky—the dim, shimmering orange and red glow that was, after six years of being a soldier, his first glimpse of war. Not his war, not yet. The heavy guns were miles east, at Charleroi or even Namur. It could be French or Belgian fire and the German Army might be reeling back from those withering blasts, but doubt gnawed at him. His palms became wet, and he stuck his hands into his pockets and strolled to the car with studied nonchalance.

  The boat train from Cherbourg was seven hours late arriving in Paris, having been shunted off the main track half a dozen times to allow troop trains to speed by. When it finally reached the Gare St. Lazare, there were no porters available and the passengers were obliged to carry their own baggage into the station. Soldiers thronged the platforms, while harried sergeants and corporals struggled to sort the men into their respective companies and battalions. Bugles blew. Regimental colors were unfurled to serve as rallying points, and gradually the soldiers moved out of the station in orderly lines before more troop trains arrived to add to the confusion. A band standing in the square in front of the church of St. Augustin played the “Marseillaise” and the “Sambre et Meuse” on bugle, drum, and fife as the troops marched down the rue de la Pépinière into the boulevard Haussmann. Thousands of Parisians thronged the pavements, cheering the long columns of men in their blue coats, red trousers, and red kepis.

  To Martin Rilke it was a vision out of childhood. He was seven years old again, standing with his mother and her cousin Bette on the Champs-Elysées. The fourteenth of July. Bands and marching soldiers passed. And the giant horses of the cuirassiers, tall men riding them, steel breastplates and crested helmets gleaming in the sun. There were troops of cuirassiers now, turning out of the rue Pasquier to trail the infantry. They looked the same as they did then, except for a covering of brown cloth over their horse-plume helmets. A concession to la guerre.